


Timeless

by notjustmom



Series: Doodahs and Whatnots [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, M/M, Not a Mary Verse, could get angsty, ubiquitous pocket watch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11037324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: Something I'm playing with, we'll see where it goes...rating may change





	1. Chapter 1

There was nothing extraordinary about the pocket watch; let us be perfectly clear about this fact from the beginning.

 

And yet...

 

John still didn't know when Sherlock was born. Not the real date. Even now. Even after everything, after all of these years. John had simply picked a date, and it had stuck. Decades later, and even though Sherlock huffed impatiently, as if a complete waste of his time when he should be tending the bees, they still took a day to celebrate if not the day of his birth precisely, the very fact of his continuing and very essential existence.

 

It wasn't something he had planned, at all. He had been on his way to pick up their normal Thursday night order of dumplings and hot and sour soup when he saw it sitting in a window of the antique shop that he passed by every day, but had never wandered into. John pressed his palms and nose into the glass and stared at the pocket watch; he could tell it was antique gold, softened by generations of fingers, rubbing it for luck in times of war and peace, holding on to it in joy and in sorrow - he knew it belonged in Sherlock's hands. He stepped away from the window, as if once again an eight year old caught drooling over the chocs in the candy shop window he was never allowed to visit. He shook the memory from his head and walked into the shop.

 

"The watch?" The shopkeeper asked with a wink, and John knew he had been seen.

 

John nodded at the shopkeeper shyly and bit his lip. The man who slowly made his way to the window seemed more at home in a Dickens' novel, than in 21st century London, as he lifted it carefully from the display and brought it over to John for inspection. "I just put it in the window yesterday, thought someone might like something analog these days, not that it matters really, doesn't work anymore, I had an expert look at it, but he couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. He figured it was just too tired to keep going. I know how it feels most days." He grinned at John as he laid the time piece into John's hand. John smiled back, knowing the sentiment all too well. 

 

The case was a bit dented, but the glass was clear, the numbers were elegant, but not too posh, and John gave a brief thought to his bank account, and emptied his wallet. The shopkeeper looked him over for a moment, and murmured thoughtfully. "Not for yourself. A loved one? Someone special. Birthday present, perhaps?"

 

"I don't even know -" John stopped suddenly and mumbled, "Yeah, he's special. He doesn't know -"

 

"Isn't it time you tell him, young man?"


	2. Chapter 2

"'Isn't it time...'"

John opened the door to the restaurant where he and Sherlock had first shared dim sum and giggled over badly written fortunes. They had barely known each other, less than two days, and yet -

"Dr. John. Order is almost ready, you are well?"

John grinned and nodded as they shook hands. "As well as can be expected, we haven't had a case in a week."

"Prawns, prawns always help with the 'prickles.'"

"Good word for it, he is definitely prickly."

The owner went into the kitchen and after a few minutes returned to the front with a large bag. "Less prickly since he's known you."

"You've known him a long time."

"Yes. But it is his story to tell, when he is ready, he will tell you."

John nodded and thought back. "That one fortune that night -"

"'In time all things when ready.'"

 

"Thirty three minutes longer than usual." Sherlock growled from behind his microscope, not bothering to look up.

John rolled his eyes and laid the bag on the coffee table. 

"Prawns. You told him I was 'prickly.'"

"Come sit, I'm sure whatever you are glaring at will wait for you."

Sherlock sighed heavily, but pushed away from the table and joined him on the couch.

"Before we eat, there is something I wanted to - that is, I need to, damn." 

"Antique shop. You went in because you -"

"Shh. Let me, please?"

Sherlock nodded as John pulled out the box from his pocket.

"I realized tonight how little I know about you, I don't even know when your birthday is, and we've been together, that is, we've shared this flat for over a year - I know you hate sentiment and the frivolity of holidays, I just thought - okay, this is going to sound weird - but I thought, today, we could celebrate your birth, even though it isn't - it isn't is it?"

Sherlock shook his head, surprised into muteness for the first time since John had known him.

"Okay then. I saw this in the window, and I wanted to give it to you." John blew out a breath as he placed the box into Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock opened the box and opened his mouth, then closed it. Then blinked and tried again. "I had one very similar once. It was my grandfather's. I carried it with me until - "

"Until?"

"Until I had to sell it. It was all I had left. I believed - I bought enough to -"

John looked down at his hands and mumbled, "I'm sorry."

"No. Not your fault. It's beautiful, John." After a long pause, Sherlock whispered, "What's the date today?"

"Hmm?"

"The date today, what's the date, John?"

"The first of March."

"March first, today is my birthday, John. Today - today, we begin again, John."

John looked up and was surprised to see tears gather in his friend's eyes. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed the box and laid it on the table, then leaned forward just enough to brush his lips against John's. "Can we start again, John?"

John nodded and mumbled, "I'd like that."

"Hungry?" Sherlock grinned.

"Starving."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a bit of angst...okay, a lot of angst. I always wanted to write the morning after the Fall.

"That's what people do, isn't it?"

"Do, when?"

"This is my note..."

John limped his way slowly up the steps, his head, shoulder and knees still sore from hitting the pavement. Mrs. Hudson opened her door, but he shook his head and she nodded and closed her door again. He pushed the door to the flat open, and managed to take off his shoes and jacket as if everything was still the same as it had been a few days earlier. It never ceased to surprise him how fast everything could go to hell. He shouldn't be surprised by now, but he was, just as he had always been surprised by Sherlock. He hadn't really changed all that much since that first brief kiss, he was still arrogant, still never bought milk, still had no time for morons, but every morning he made tea, he always made sure John had his first cuppa no matter what. Which was how he knew. 

He blinked awake that first morning in Sherlock's chair, with a stiff neck and a numb shoulder to find the mug he always used on the table next to his own chair, and the tea was still warm. At first he thought Mrs. Hudson had come in, but she was always noisy, always clicking around in those heels, always announcing herself. And the box was there. Not in its normal place in the drawer of the bedside table. John moved slowly to his chair and sat down, feeling a decade or two older. He stared at the mug, watching the steam rise from it and wondering for a brief moment when he had last bought milk. He shrugged and picked it up, then sniffed it, just to be sure. Seemed okay, nothing floating in it, no obvious scent of drugs. 

"You never forgave me for that -"

"You did drug me that one time."

"No, I only thought I had drugged you. I believe there is a difference."

"Hmm; Kind of like lying by omission. Which you were always good at."

"But you always forgave me my white lies. And I never lied about how I felt about you."

"How did you feel about me?"

"I didn't think you needed the words. So commonplace, so overused, I thought you understood."

"Understood what, precisely?"

"That I would do anything for you. That I would die for you, if necessary."

"I never asked you."

"I wasn't given a choice."

He somehow managed to drink the tea without spilling, then placed the mug back on the table, picked up the box, and opened it. The watch was inside, but it seemed a bit more polished than normal; Sherlock had always kept it in the inside pocket of his coat, when they were on cases, and it stayed in the box when they were at home. He lifted it from the box and flipped it over. It had a new engraving, within the last few days, John realized, as he ran his fingers over the words.

"If inconvenient, come all the same."

He placed the watch into the box, and stared at the hands for a long moment before he let out a howl of laughter. The arse had changed the time to the exact moment they had met. John had looked down at his phone when he walked into the lab and had seen him standing there, and had never forgotten the time, 11:23 and -

"Sixteen seconds, but who's counting?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

John shook his head and closed the box, then stood up and made his way to the bedroom. He returned the box to its proper place and closed the drawer, then undressed and buried his face in Sherlock's pillows, and slept for two days.


	4. Chapter 4

John and Mycroft met exactly once over the next two years, when the black stone was installed, in a deconsecrated part of Sherlock's favourite cemetery. John had thought it odd at first, and then it made sense. Of course Sherlock would have a favourite cemetery. John watched Mycroft as he scattered the first handful of dirt over the coffin; he shuddered as he heard the thunk, and wondered at how loud it seemed, then gave a brief thought to whatever or whomever was actually inside that rather expensive box. Mycroft met John's eyes and nodded; he returned the politician's questioning gaze with his own neutral glare and Mycroft turned away sharply. John had been a quick study of how to keep his feelings from reaching his eyes, he had known how dangerous it could be for anyone to know, and still, for all of the precautions taken, Sherlock had still found it necessary to leave. Once in a while he noticed the black sedan from the corner of his eye, but Mycroft never darkened the rooms of Baker Street, or sent any of his silent minions to 'invite' John to visit him in his rooms at the equally silent Diogenes Club. 

He spent his days at the surgery, his nights tending to those who banged on his door at all hours; mostly the remnants of Sherlock's Homeless Network, who needed the occasional patching up or simply a sandwich and a bit of a chat. Even the rare client still found their way to his doorstep, usually those who were simply curious, or who lived off the grid enough to not know of Sherlock's death. John offered them a cuppa and listened to their stories, and sent them on their way with Lestrade's business card for the more serious cases. He slept when he crashed, ate when he remembered and carried himself as a man mourning a spouse.

 

"What are your feelings about matrimony?" Sherlock had asked one night as he watched John undress for bed.

"My feelings? Whether it is good or bad?" John turned around and grinned at Sherlock, then turned thoughtful as he saw the serious expression in Sherlock's eyes. "Uhm, well. For some people, I guess, it works. Worked for my mum and dad, I suppose. I never gave it much thought. What are your thoughts on the subject, I'm assuming you have some?"

"Hmmm. Honestly, I hadn't considered it seriously, until, well, that time when I couldn't get in to see you. It was only a concussion, but they wouldn't let me in, because I wasn't 'family.' I've been considering what it means, what it would mean, whether it would -"

John finished undressing and climbed into bed, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's face, as it flushed slightly, the usually confident voice began to soften and the slight stutter came into play, which only happened when he was nervous. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"Only if it is s- s -something that you would be comfortable with? I don't want to - I mean, you know how I hate to assume anything, but I have the idea that our feelings are somewhat in alignment and -"

John ran his finger over Sherlock's slightly trembling bottom lip and nodded. 

"Is that a yes?" Sherlock whispered, in a shy, broken voice that took John's breath away for a moment.

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I would very much like to be your husband. I would like that very much."

 

"Dr. Watson?"

"Hmmmm?" He blinked and found himself in the middle of stitching up one of his regulars. She was one of the older ones, had known Sherlock since his early days on the streets, had been a protector of sorts when he was still learning the ropes. "Sorry."

"He'll be back."

John bit his lip and shook his head. "Some days I'm not so sure. I keep hoping he'll send a message. I know it's too dangerous -"

"Remember that day when you signed the book with him? He put the ring on your finger without a word, he didn't need to say anything, it was all over his face, he married his best friend, and the love of his life that day. If there is a way for him to get home, there is nothing he wouldn't do to get home to you."

John nodded and tried to focus as he continued to sew up a gash on her knee. "I know, Nan, I know. I just wonder how much of him will be left if he does make it back."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and finally, some fluff

He gave Nan a pillow and a throw and nodded at the couch. "Please, stay. No reason to go out on a night like this."

She smiled a weathered grin at him and touched his face. "He knew - he always knew you were stronger."

"Stronger? No - I'm just - He -"

"Dr. Watson. You stayed behind and you stayed. There is no way he could have survived if something had happened to you. He worried that you wouldn't understand. I told him to leave you something of himself behind. Something that would tell you that he was still in the world, something he needed to come back for. He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind, and said, 'Nan - he is reason enough. I don't need anything else as long as I know he is okay.'"

John looked away from her and mumbled, "The watch, the watch I gave him. It didn't seem like something he would have thought of on his own - he had his watch engraved, and he left it for me, that's how I knew. Well, that, and he made me a cuppa before he left - he could've gotten himself killed -"

She muttered, "I did that for him - he wanted to be sure you had your tea. At least that first morning. I told him I would. I knew if he had tried to - he never could have left you a second time -" her voice changed, to almost something hopeful, and John turned back to face her.

"Do you want to see it?"

"I don't want to intrude, it's not my -" 

"I'll be right back." 

John opened the drawer that he had closed two years earlier and pulled out the box, then went back to where Nan had been standing. In her place, a swaying ghost stood, at least that is what his eyes told him. His heart told him otherwise. He helped the shivering man to the couch and knelt in front of him, the box still held tightly in his left hand. "Please tell me I'm awake?"

"What's today's date, John?" The ghost asked quietly, without raising his eyes.

"Today's date?"

"Uhmhmm."

John had to stop and think, before realizing what day it was. "March first, Sherlock. It's March first."

"You knew." Sherlock's tattered voice rasped out. "You understood. Nan was right."

"Course I was, you mad idiot. Here, love, I figured you could use some tea, not a good night to be out. The winds are something fierce. I'm gonna go, leave you two to yourselves. No, I always have places to go. Thank you, Dr. Watson, for the patchwork as always, and Sherlock, I am right pleased to see your face again. You have been missed." Nan bent down and kissed Sherlock's overgrown mop of hair. "See you soon, yeah?"

"Thank you, Nan -"

Nan smiled at them, wrapped her chaotic jumble of scarves around her shoulders and slipped into her heavy coat, then disappeared down the steps.

"What can I do for you?" John was afraid to touch the figure in front of him, still not quite sure he was not just a figment of his imagination.

Sherlock took a sip of his overly sweetened, milky tea, then cleared his throat and squinted at John. "You know what I've been dreaming of for two years?"

John shook his head and felt his heart jump as Sherlock reached out a shaky hand and laid It on John's shoulder. "Tell me."

"Dim Sum and those prawn things, a hot bath, and a haircut, but most of all, sleeping with you curled around me again."

John felt a smile slowly warm his face and reach his eyes for the first time in two years, and he laid the box on the coffee table. He brushed Sherlock's tangle of hair from his face and kissed his forehead carefully. "I think that could be arranged. Bath first, and a haircut, I think? I just got some of those bubbles you like."

"Bubbles?"

"Yeah, bubbles."

"And then dumplings?"

"Yes, my heart, as many as you can eat."

"I love you." Sherlock mumbled against John's lips.

"I thought -" John pulled back a bit and looked into Sherlock's glittering eyes.

"The first time I woke up and you weren't there, I understood. I understood why people say the words, when there are times you can't show it in other ways, it's like shorthand. I swore to myself when I got home to you, I would tell you every night before we fell asleep together, and each morning when I bring you your tea, you would never have to guess -"

John shook his head. "You're still an idiot." And he pulled Sherlock gently into his arms.

Sherlock took a shattered breath as he felt John's heart beat under his fingers, then rumbled. "Your idiot, John, only yours."


End file.
